


The Age of Innocence

by adelheid



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adultery, Cousin Incest, F/M, Jealousy, Pining, Possessive Behavior, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 04:43:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18024914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adelheid/pseuds/adelheid
Summary: The world ends and begins anew. Sansa must come face to face with a Jon Snow who is now the Queen's consort.  (post final season)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (will i stop dicking around and write the jonsa slowburn that season 8 won't give me? mayhaps. hope you enjoy!)

_each time, you happen to me all over again._

edith wharton - the age of innocence 

 

***

She glimpses him only once during the War, but it is memorable enough that she never forgets.

She’s being hauled onto a horse by Jaime Lannister who is begging her to abandon Winterfell while she still can. Half of the ramparts have already been scaled by wights and most of the castle towers are dancing in russet flames. The few fighting men left are throwing blazing arrows at the undead.

Sansa does not want to go. She is like a sea captain, intent on sticking with her ship until the bitter end. And secretly, she is tired. Tired of running, tired of leaving home.

But Jaime Lannister swore an oath to Brienne of Tarth and he is not about to renege on it now. Especially since he has not seen his wench since the fighting started in earnest.

Jaime tells her to hold tight as he climbs up behind her and takes hold of the reins.

They ride in a feverish whirl of snow and flames, leaving the corpse-strewn yard behind as they burst through the East Gate. The Stark banners are cinder stars in the wind. Sansa does not realize she is crying until the tears salt her lips.

Jaime does not even bother with his sword, since he needs his good hand to steer the horse, but Sansa has unsheathed her small dagger and tries her best to keep the wights’ fingers off the saddle. They trample blindly over their skeletal bodies, trying their hardest not to get pulled down.

When they have ridden long enough that the number of undead has diminished, Sansa allows herself a moment of weakness. She looks up at the grey-white sky.

And there, she sees a dragon in the distance, smoke billowing like satin from its nostrils.

The beast flies fast, its belly darkening the earth and bringing with it a smell of burnt flesh.

Atop the dragon, the Targaryen Queen looks grim and determined, white hair streaked with ash. The battle so far is not going as she had expected. Behind her rides her paramour, Jon Snow holding onto her waist.

It’s the first time Sansa lays eyes on him since he left Winterfell to meet Daenerys all those moons ago. Even with the knives of terror in her belly, she feels a sudden devastating happiness at the sight of him. Everything else seems inconsequential for a moment. He is alive and well and he is riding a _dragon_. She says his name, but the sound is swallowed by the screams around her. He would not be able to hear her anyway.

She says a small, feverish prayer for him. She says one for the Targaryen Queen too.

Later she will think, _no matter how much I’ve lived through, I’m still an innocent_ , because she did not suppose that it mattered that Jon and Dany were holding each other. Or maybe she knew it mattered but in that blissful moment of relief she forgot. She was just happy her brother was still breathing and she was grateful to the dragon queen for keeping him alive.

More the fool her.

 

 

It is Jaime who brings the letter to her as she’s lying in bed with a broken arm and frost-bitten toes. Her left side is also sore from a constellation of bruises, the consequence of falling off her horse. She feels very lucky, all things considered. So many souls have lost their lives and she is only in danger of losing a few toes. She has not yet looked in a mirror, but one of the serving girls told her that her skin looks a bit darker. Snow storms and frost winds do not blanch you, she has learned. They make you stand out in the white.

Sansa marvels at the feeling of a feather bed. She never thought she’d lie in one again. The Westerlings’ ruined castle feels like a princely home. It is rather bittersweet that Robb once ailed here and fell in love.

“I’m sorry, but I’ve already read it,” Jaime confesses, sitting down by her side. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Sansa smiles as she raises herself on her elbows. “It’s miracle enough to see an actual letter.”

It’s a sign the ravens are flying again and the storms have abated.

Jaime cannot hold a smile. He wears a black band around his arm. He has aged a century. He is a widower, of sorts. Brienne’s body was buried with great honors only three days before. Sansa shed her own private tears, but she knows her pain is nothing compared to his.

“It’s from our new Queen,” he says as he passes her the parchment. “She calls us forth to join hands in rebuilding Westeros, if you can believe it.”

“She wastes no time. It’s barely been a month,” Sansa wonders as she scans the first lines.

When she reaches the midpoint, however, the words become jumbled and stick together like insects. She has a difficult time untangling them. She lowers the letter.

“A wedding?” she echoes quietly.

Jaime looks down at his golden hand, still gleaming coolly after all this time. He wishes he had lost it in the fighting. “Are you surprised? No one can deny Jon Snow’s worthiness as suitor. There will be songs sung in his name, I’m sure.”

Sansa nods weakly. “Sung in both their names. The Saviors of Westeros.”

Jaime regards her. “I wonder why he has not written you himself.”

 “I think he fears I disapprove, but how could I? Without Daenerys we wouldn’t have stood a chance. Politically, it is a brilliant move.”

Jaime shakes his head. Dany may have lost all her dragons in the war, she may have even redeemed herself in the process, but to him she is still the conqueror who set his men aflame. He can never forget it. It’s his legacy, after all, to stand against Targaryens who dream of fire.

“Brilliant, perhaps,” he concedes, “but a wedding is in bad taste now. We’ve barely – we’ve barely buried our dead.” His voice cracks slightly at the end.

Sansa wants to reach out and squeeze his good hand, but she is beset by her own private agonies.

She should be happy at this outcome, shouldn’t she? But how can she be? She remembers the letter - can still quote it by heart – in which Jon summarily informed her he had bent the knee to this new queen and had given up his crown. Suppose now Jon no longer has to give up any crown. He is Daenerys’ equal, her consort. Is this better? What does this mean for the North? And what does it mean for _her_ , Sansa? And when _did_ Jon fall in love, was it before or after -?

Jaime pries her gently from her thoughts when he touches her shoulder.

“Shall I write back that you require rest?”

Sansa shakes her head.

“No, I will be ready when the time comes to leave.”

Jaime’s lips form a thin line of disapproval, but he will do as she says. The war has shifted their allegiances, has made them rely on each other for better or worse.

He has nothing left in this world but his duty, and his duty is Sansa Stark. His sister was burned to a crisp in the Red Keep, and no matter how much of a monster Cersei had been, he will not forgive Daenerys this sin either. He has no way of knowing that it was the younger dragon sibling, Rhaegal that killed her, thus fulfilling the prophecy of the Valonquar. 

His own little brother, Tyrion, burned with Cersei when he switched allegiances in the last hour of battle, and Jaime cannot mourn him without a bitter taste in his mouth. All this grief has turned him into a shadow of himself.

In many ways, Jaime now reminds her of the Hound, her once stern protector who had been broken by the world. His was another body to bury.

 _The lion has become a dog_ , she thinks but she does not mean it as mockery. Perhaps the lion will rise again, just like the wolf. But if they do, they will be vastly different. Almost unrecognizable.

 

 

“Will he have to stay on Dragonstone from now on?” Arya wonders out loud as she wraps the bandage around Sansa’s arm.

“It’s the center of power, where all decisions will be made. It’s in our interest for him to be there…and well, if he is to be the queen’s husband, he cannot live away from her,” her sister answers wanly, looking down in her lap.

Arya makes a face. She is not that excited about Jon’s nuptials either, but she is proud that he will be king consort.

“I’m sure he’ll also travel west as often as he can. He can bring the queen too,” she says, wrapping the bandage a little too tightly, just how Sansa likes it.

“Strange, isn’t it? That we now live in our former enemy’s territory and the North is no longer our home,” Arya remarks dryly, but there is a lot of misery behind her jape.

Sansa grips her hand. “It will be our home again someday, we must believe that. We’ve survived this far. What has it all been for if not for that?” 

Arya nods and clenches her jaw, refusing to show more emotion than necessary. It is not coldness, but merely force of habit. Too much has been taken. The Stark name is dying out. Their brother Bran is now lost somewhere in the weirwoods beyond the broken wall, living or dead – they have no way of knowing. The last thing he told them was that Jon was not a bastard but a trueborn Stark, and yet a trueborn Targaryen as well. Rhaegar and Lyanna’s son, their cousin and heir to the Iron Throne. The shock of it was dimmed by the chaos of their whole world falling apart around them, but now that the war has finished, the two sisters are still reeling. Still trying to make sense of their new family.

 “I still– I still think of him as a brother,” Arya says quietly. “There’s no one more deserving to rule than him, but I hope we don’t have to call him a bloody Targaryen. He’ll always be a Stark to me.”

“To me too,” Sansa concurs, though ever since finding out Jon is her cousin she has been turning the knowledge in her head like the remnant of an old manuscript written in a foreign tongue. She has yet to translate it. It shouldn’t be so difficult. He is still her brother, at heart. But he is not her brother in the same way he’s _Arya’s_ brother and Sansa wishes she could explain the difference. 

Arya exhales. “Seven hells, I know we’re not supposed to talk about it, but he’s marrying his aunt.”

There’s the shadow of a smirk on her lips, as if they were young again and she had said something very rude for which their mother will certainly scold them.

Sansa can’t deny her own small smile. “It’s in Targaryen fashion, after all.”

Arya wrinkles her nose. “Can you imagine her and Jon...in bed?”

Sansa blanches. “Arya!”

“Oh come off it, we’ve been through hell and back. You can’t seriously be holding onto your courtesy.”

“It’s not courtesy, I just don’t wish to talk about such _horrid_ things.”

 “I don’t think sex is _that_ horrid.” Arya’s face quickly turns grave. “Oh gods, I’m sorry, I forgot about the Boltons.”

Sansa winces. She does not like to be reminded of those times, but her sister mistakes her. It’s not the vulgar aspect of bedding that disturbs her. It’s Jon and the queen in the throes of passion…Jon and the queen lying naked in each other’s arms, using their mouths and fingers to proclaim their desire… Sansa feels not only discomfort, but bile rising in her throat. She can’t tell this to her sister, because it’s not normal, is it? To feel so terrible when she imagines Jon loving his bride.  In the back of her mind, her sober, ascetic brother would have remained wifeless, ruling the North with his sisters.

She decides to change the subject. “How would you know sex is not terrible?”

Arya is momentarily delighted to hear her sister speak without delicacy, but then she realizes she is being questioned. Her expression becomes sly.

“I don’t.”

Sansa narrows her eyes. “Yes…you do. You’ve never been a good liar, no matter what those Faceless Men taught you.”

Arya’s blush could melt the small mounds of snow lingering on the window vanes.

It comes out in reluctant monosyllables, but Sansa manages to work out that Arya and Gendry have rekindled their bond in ways that would require a maester to officiate.

The sisters giggle together as if they were young chits, still dreaming of the future.

There is a deceptive sense of ease in the air. Sansa does not entirely give into it. She knows that their battles are far from over.

 

 

The beach is strewn with thin boats carrying the Queen's loyal subjects from their ships. The gods provided good weather.

Sansa lands with her boots firmly in the dark sand. It seems to sift between her toes, as if the ground were uneven. 

She stares at the craggy undersides, the sheer cliffs falling into sea foam. The rapids which have sunk so many ships. This is an inhospitable place, yet beautiful in its cold pride. There's something almost of the North in it. 

The looming fortress rises before her like a dragon's back, the ramparts winding down to the shore. 

The procession of people must climb the long stairs to the parapets and then humbly walk all the way to the giant dragon heads guarding the entrance to the castle. It is an exercise in pageantry, but it is also invigorating. She has been lying in bed too long. 

Jaime offers her his golden hand.

Arya has already run ahead to greet Jon who has come out to meet them. 

Sansa does not want to look up and find him. She still remembers staring at the sky, watching him fly above her. She would rather focus on putting one foot in front of the other.

She cannot stopper her ears. She hears Arya's delighted cries as Jon gathers her in his arms and lifts her from the ground. For all her prowess, Arya looks twelve when her brother (now cousin, she reminds herself) picks her up. 

She can see Jon's tear-stained face buried in Arya's hair. He is clinging to her for dear life. 

Sansa quickly turns to Jaime, hoping she won't burst into tears herself. 

"Are you all right?" the lion inquires gently. 

"I'll have to be," she murmurs more to herself. 

"We could still turn around, get on a ship, tell them you are too ill for court."

"I've climbed a hundred stairs already," she says with a smile. "They might not believe me." 

Jaime shrugs. "You could pull off a convincing swoon." 

Sansa is about to reply, when she hears her name. It's strange, it almost does not sound right. Not when it's declaimed. Almost announced.

The man who addresses her is not entirely Jon. He is King Consort of Westeros now. And as she turns her head towards him, she sees him outlined in the harsh sun, a man weathered by storms and reborn in fire and blood. A youth without age. He's dressed in simple, sparse finery, yet it's finery all the same. The furs have been replaced with delicate ermine trimming. His hair is combed back, a silver band around his forehead. 

"Sansa," he says again, calling her forth, demanding her attention, yet not entirely trusting she will give it. 

His eyes flicker between her and Jaime Lannister in his usual humorless fashion. She wonders if he will smile at his wedding, at least. He must be wondering why the Lannister has deigned to come. His House has been broken entirely, shamed by Tyrion into oblivion. He is the last, defeated lion. 

Sansa clutches Jaime's arm tighter, as if to defend him, but Jaime steps forward and bows without a hint of irony to his new king. 

"Your Grace."

Jon's lips purse, as if not entirely pleased with the display. Perhaps he is not used to being addressed this way. He ought to adapt. This is the only lesson worth learning, after all.

" _Cousin._ "

His grey eyes snap back to her. The word sends a chill straight to his bones. He has been frozen half to death and sometimes frozen _in_ the sleep of death and this is colder somehow.

Sansa swallows. "Cousin," she repeats and curtsies quickly, "Jaime Lannister has been my loyal guardian these past months. He can be trusted entirely and welcomed in your company." 

There is something almost suspended in Jon's gaze, like a ship amidst jagged rocks. 

He frowns. "Come forward. Let me see you." 

Sansa wishes she were further way. A longer walk would help her calm her nerves. Her hands feel hot inside her gloves.

He is not the same brother who smiled at her inability to hold down her ale, who listened to her advice and took it to heart, who looked back as he rode out of Winterfell. 

She is not the same either, but she makes an effort to be the person she is expected to be.

She stops before him, sucking in a deep breath. 

Jon pours over her features, cataloging her hurts, her alterations, the untold signs of battle. His expression is almost furtive, trying not to dwell on anything in particular. Yet the effort not to dwell stands out.

He wants to ask her if there is something he is not seeing, some hidden injury that might prove fatal. Is she _whole_? 

So many times during battle he thought he should turn back, he thought that she might be - but he doesn't finish the thought. 

Instead, he steps forward. And just like the first time when they were standing on the ramparts at Winterfell after they had taken it back from the Boltons, he gently grabs the sides of her head, fingers treading lightly through red hair, and brings her forehead to his lips. 

A kiss to mirror the first. 

Sansa shuts her eyes. His lips are warm, feverish in fact. It does not feel like that first time. It feels worse somehow. She doesn't comprehend the dread in her belly. 

When he lets go of her, his eyes stray low to her mouth and throat, as if checking one last time that she is in one piece. 

Sansa is disquieted. 

"Don't call me cousin," he says quietly, so only she might hear.

 _What shall I call you?_ she wonders. 

And then Arya steps between them and the moment is folded back onto itself. 

The procession must carry on.

They must go and pay homage to the Queen. 

Sansa retakes Jaime's arm on their trek to the castle. She stares at her feet, keeps track of each step. 

Jon walks with Arya, trying to pay attention to her words. He does not look back at Sansa, though he feels her presence all the same. His fist is clenched at his side, as if he were still holding a flaming sword. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for your responses, i'm so grateful! i hope you enjoy this chapter!

***

 

Sansa quickly perceives why the Queen was in no state to climb down the ramparts and greet her people by the sea. She can barely rise from her throne. She requires Missandei’s help and a man from her Khalasar to lift her up. 

Her belly is larger than herself.

Sansa instantly thinks, _she must be carrying twins_ , though she can attribute this intuition to nothing but the Queen’s ridiculous girth. She is almost struck with a bout of laughter.

It would be appalling and possibly _dangerous_ to laugh at such a delicate moment.

The realization that it is Jon’s child will come later. Of course she _knows_ , as one knows facts, but she is still not yet recovered from her journey. She can’t take everything in at once.

She has to discreetly nudge her companion.

“Now’s the time to bow,” she mutters to him.

Jaime looks like a man told to take a helping of beach sand and chew it heartily, but since the rest of the court curtsies when the Queen rises he has no choice in the matter.

Sansa would like him to look less grim about it. Once upon a time, Jaime Lannister was a man of subtleties.

It can’t be helped now. Many things can’t.

Very soon, Jon is standing next to his queen. He has the momentary reflex to put his arm around her waist and thus display his future progeny, but at the last moment, he uses that arm to point at the newly arrived guests instead.

“I’d like you to meet my sisters,” he tells Daenerys.

The Queen smiles obligingly. It is very obvious that pregnancy delights her and has made her happier than conquest.

 _Though, that’s a kind of conquest too_ , Sansa reflects.

She can’t think any further mean thoughts, however. Daenerys Targaryen is indeed glowing, her famed beauty only enhanced by her present condition. There is something of the winter sky in her white-silver hair. Her cheeks are frosted apples. She looks more like a snow maiden than Sansa ever did, and this thought makes her smile.

 _It must be the war that’s put me in such a good mood_ , she jokes to herself.

“I’m so happy to finally set eyes on you. We were so worried, during the battle, on your behalf.  I know Jon was distressed…” the Queen trails off, brushing her hand along his arm. “But come here, let me embrace you.”

Sansa walks forward readily, but Arya has a pronounced limp in her step, as if she’s not quite ready for affection.

For his part, Jon looks like he’d rather not be here, but he smiles gently at his future wife. He clearly wants this to go well and Sansa wants this for him too, whatever her misgivings.

Sansa kisses the Queen’s cheek and then, without knowing quite what she’s doing, she takes her hand and kisses the sigil ring too.

Her mother always taught her good manners and they often come in handy. Sometimes they come unbidden. 

Behind her, Arya ineffectually stifles a gasp, but because her sister has set a precedent she must do the same. She crushes the Queen’s hand in her grip.

Dany tries to laugh it off, but she sounds quite pleased with the show of obsequies.  “Please, no more formalities.  We are family now.”

Jon’s smile becomes a thin line. Sansa can see the tension in the lining of his shoulders. He’s never been good at this. Even now, surrounded by allies, he acts like a wolf in a cage.

She steps back.

“I hope you will allow us to congratulate you and wish you good health,” she says, looking down at Dany’s belly. “We are sorry we could bring no gift from the North for the occasion, but I hope you will take kindly to tokens from the West.”

Sansa looks back at Jaime, for this is his cue.

The former knight nods once, thoroughly unhappy, and brings forward the chest their retinue had carried over the sea.

Sansa bends down herself, skirts sweeping the floor, as she opens the chest. She finds that the more she prostrates, the better she feels. There’s power in humility. It rather humiliates others.

From her bended knee, she looks up at Jon.

He is staring at the sweep of her dress. His jaw is locked tight as he watches his sister present a few threadbare but precious old tapestries to the Queen.

“They tell the story of Aegon’s Conquest. I thought you might like them, your Grace.”

Dany’s eyes go wide.

“They are lovely. Truly _lovely_. Where were they housed?”

Sansa pauses. “In Lannisport, your Grace. Jaime Lannister managed to rescue them in the siege.”

Dany finally looks at the old enemy, the Kingslayer standing in front of her. Still alive, still wearing his golden hand. His slaying hand.

“He knew your Grace would like them,” Sansa insists, clutching at her fingers under the sleeves. “He begs your good word. Don’t you, Ser Jaime?”

Sansa looks at her guardian, implores him with her eyes not to blunder.

Jaime looks back at Sansa instead of the Queen. “Yes, your Grace.”   

 _Badly done_ , she will tell him later. _Very badly done_.

But Dany has not made it this far without taking a few barbs.

She smiles glacially. “I thank you. But you are a knight no longer and therefore need not be addressed as Ser. You shall be known solely as Jaime from now on, no other name or title required.”

Jaime pales a little. He always expected oblivion, but never quite so quickly. However many times he might’ve disavowed his family in his mind, it’s still a blow to be told the name Lannister shall be no more. He is the last. Not even that. His page in the White Book of the Kingsguard shall remain forever empty.

Sansa mourns for him. His children will have no name. He is now worse off than Jon Snow ever was. But it is the best she could do, she realizes.

She expects Jon to look uncomfortable at the notion of a man being reduced to a bastard, but when Sansa catches his eye, he does not seem very much disturbed.

It is he who finally steps forward to put an end to the moment.

“I believe our guests are tired,” he says, strenuously. “We’ll rejoin for supper and resume discussions.”

It’s a gauche way to wrestle with the court, but Jon is new at it. Dany concedes, smiling fondly at her beloved.

The chest of tapestries is taken away with many thanks and Sansa returns to Jaime and Arya’s side. She takes the former’s arm.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers to him, but he only squeezes her hand and proceeds to escort her out.

Jon kisses the top of his queen’s head.

“You did well,” he says, looking at the back of Jaime Lannister.

 

 

 

Dragonstone is draftier than the Westerlings’ castle and less comfortable too.

It is a funny thought that the ruins were more welcoming to her.

She sits by the window and feels the cold slabs of stone underneath, feels their fingers reaching through the wool to kiss her thighs. She thinks about the quality of coldness in Winterfell. How it was somehow bearable, almost enchanted.

In the quiet of her room the wry amusement turns to wry sadness.

Jon is going to be a father. He loved his queen well.

Sansa rubs at her cheek, as if trying to remove dirt. She remembers feeling both delight and distaste every time her mother’s belly grew big. Catelyn used to tell her it’s the happiest condition, even when it’s not.

Sansa clutches at her own belly.

_Never. I would rather drink all the tansy tea in the world._

In a sense, she pities Jon. He is forever bound now, whereas she is free.  She may leave this place, why, she may sail for Braavos or anywhere she likes. Arya will take her.

_But am I free or am I merely jesting?_

No, there’s still Winterfell. She can’t abandon that dream, even if everyone else has.

Her purpose in coming here is first and foremost political, she must remember.

She needs to persuade the Queen that now more than ever the North must be secured. The Wall must be rebuilt. The fortifications and the castles must be manned again.

_But how and with what resources?_

The other continents have been less damaged. Perhaps help could come from unexpected corners. She drafts letters in her head, letters to people she does not know.

She dwells less on her own fate. What matters now are stones and mortar; her own life will follow.

Her window has a view of the inner courtyard. She is glad not to see the sea, for it would trouble her.

Instead she sees with a smile Arya and Gendry stealing a kiss under the eaves below.

 

 

 

Jaime is not seated at her table or anywhere near her. He is breaking bread with the captain of the guards and other officers in the rears.

Sansa gladly remarks he looks more at ease talking to these men, even if his place is markedly low.

Lyanna Mormont is picking at the meager cut of capon on her plate.

“We’ve barely got enough to food to feed ourselves and now this talk of a wedding…” she mutters under her breath. “Pure madness.”

Sansa hides a smile. “I believe the wedding is already set, my lady.”

“If the Walkers haven’t finished us off, she will,” she mutters quietly, so quiet that only her companion hears. For this is treason now.

But the matter stands. Daenerys needs to gather allies with resources and quickly.

Sansa realizes that Jon must do the same. It’s easy to forget there are _two_ rulers of Westeros now. Daenerys seems to dominate by sheer attitude. Whenever she smiles at her future consort, the Queen adds _something_ to that smile. An intangible weight. She is a woman who demands devotion. But it's not that hard to fall in love with a beautiful queen, Sansa reflects.

She wants to ask Jon, _when did you know?_   When does one ever know?

She has been caught watching. Jon lifts his gaze and meets hers.

There’s always been a kind of silent communication between the Starks. Bran called it the legacy of their blood, the magic of skin-changing.

But Jon’s a Targaryen now too.  Has that link been severed?   

Sansa quickly looks down. She doesn’t want or care to find out.

She feels his eyes on her for a few moments more.

When she finally glances up, the king is gone from his seat on the dais.

 

_The minor lords from Dorne_ , Sansa thinks to herself, remembering their graceful, sun-worn faces in the Great Hall. _I must get closer to them._

Only a handful had managed to come and pay their dues to the new Queen. The deaths of the Martells, once allies of Daenerys, still weighed on them, as did the ravaging of their northern territories at Kingsgrave and Yronwood. The war had not eluded them, even if it had spared them. But many sensed an opportunity in the new order. They might supplant the old families and take control of Sunspear.

_What matter is they might have allies in the east, old friends along the Rhoyne that would help us–_

She doesn’t get far with that thought.

She hears the footsteps behind her.

She thought she might be alone on this small terrace, alone with the dark sea she cannot behold. Sansa reaches for the small dagger in her skirts.  

“It’s only me.”

Sansa doesn’t let go of the handle, even if it’s him. She feels guilty at the thought, but there’s not much she can do about it.

Jon moves away from the wall like a shadow. She cannot see his face very well for there are fewer torches here. She is glad for it. She’s tired of looking at him and guessing. He’s not wearing his crown at least.

“What are you doing here alone?” he questions too readily.  

“Breathing in the good sea air,” she replies tartly.

“Sansa.”

 _You’ve no right to use that tone_ _with me_ , she thinks, clenching her gloved fingers.

For this was always his tone – always worried for her, always fearful. Yet also afraid _of_ her, of what she might do.

As if he could not control her, as if he would’ve wanted to.

“I’m perfectly safe,” she says, contemplating the wreath of foam on the dark bed of the sea. “No one can harm me here, can they?”

 _Have you followed me?_   she wants to ask. _How did you find me?_

“All the same, it’s better to be careful,” he insists.

“Well, _you_ ought to know about being careful.”

She does not mean any true malice by it, but she can’t be expected to speak pretty words all night long.

Jon seems to grow larger next to her. He leans closer, partly blocking her view of darkness.

And then, something she does not expect. “How long has this been going on between Arya and Gendry?”

Sansa expels a shocked laugh.

“ _What_?”

“I – I saw them being very cozy earlier. More than cozy I suppose. I thought she would’ve told me.”

Sansa is still laughing, shaking her head. “She’s a woman grown by now. She doesn’t tell anyone anything if she can help it.”

“But _you_ knew?”

“Of course.” She takes pride in the knowledge.

Even in the weak light, she can see Jon’s face is crestfallen.

Sansa softens her words. “They have been friends awhile. They met when she was smuggled out of King’s Landing. It’s been – it’s been a long time coming.”

“And - and he’s good to her? Gentle and kind?”

Sansa is discomfited by his questions. “You know Gendry better than I. He’s a good man. And besides, he ought to be _less_ kind and gentle if he wants to keep up with Arya.”  

Jon nods his head gruffly, but there’s a small smile at the corner of his mouth. He’s always been so stingy with his smiles.  

“Arya will tell you her story in her own time,” Sansa adds, turning back to the sea.

“And what about you?” he asks thickly, as if he’s just swallowed a mouthful of wine.

She blinks. “You know my story.”

“I don’t know what happened after…after I left.”

She purses her lips. “I wrote you letters.”

Jon looks away. “Aye. I still have them. They were good letters, but not exactly…personal.”

Sansa shrugs. She wants to tell him, _you might as well burn them now_. “It was war, Jon. I didn’t have time to _be_ personal.”

“Aren’t you cold?” he asks suddenly.

She can tell he's ready to shrug off his cloak.

It bothers her, this gesture, almost as if he were not paying attention to her words. 

There’s something unpredictable about his conduct, something unforeseen. She doesn’t know if he’s trying to apologize and what for. She doesn’t understand her own feelings either. There’s more resentment in her heart than she could have guessed. Just as he's upset that Arya didn't tell him about Gendry, perhaps she too - 

She shakes her head. “I’m fine, thank you.”

His hand drops. “I should have written you more, to explain things.”

“I understand why you couldn’t.”

“I had to pledge – that is I _wanted_ …”  He falters, stops.  “She _is_ a good woman. She will make a good queen. And I don’t want any child of mine to be a bastard. You know how I feel about that.”

 _Oh Gods, no._  Sansa wants to stopper her ears. This can’t be right. They _can’t_ be talking about this. Not here, so _openly_ , even if the crash of the waves muffles all sound.

“It – it was the right thing to do. Please, we don’t have to – there’s no need –” she stammers. She doesn’t want to hear it. She feels one lock of hair worrying the corner of her eye. She tries to snatch it away, but misses the mark.

“I just - I don’t want you to think I let myself be ruled by instinct alone.”

 _Instinct._ She shrinks inside. “Really Jon, I don’t know why we must explain these _things_ to each other.”

He hangs his head. “Well, because you’re my –”

He pauses.  Sister, cousin, friend? No title seemed to fully embody her.

“You’re my blood,” he settles, staring at the lock of hair fastened to her cheek. “And I’m still a Stark.”

Sansa swallows. “I’m aware. I never said you weren’t. That - that hasn’t changed.”

_Hasn’t it?_

Jon reaches with his gloved hand towards hers. “Then I want you to know why I do the things I do. I want you to understand me. I felt like I owed you an explanation.”

“In matters of ruling the North, yes,” Sansa corrects, moving away. “But not in matters of your heart.”

Jon chokes on a rare laugh and it sounds sharp and bitter. “My _heart_. Don’t put it like that.”

“You’re _allowed_ to fall in love,” she finally snaps, as if spitting out something foul at the back of her throat. It’s all this sea air, it’s not doing her good after all. “I don’t fault you for finding happiness."

Jon’s voice sounds disembodied. “I couldn’t be happy until I knew you were safe.”

Sansa forces a weary smile. She has not missed this dancing around each other. “I am safe, as you can see. You can finally be happy, Jon.”

Even in the dark she can see he looks miserable.

Sansa doesn’t know what else can be gained from this conversation.

"I believe we're both tired with the day's events."

She moves to get past him.

For a moment, it looks as if she's free.

But his hand is suddenly on her arm, gripping her in that familiar way, pulling her back. His hold is not soft, nor is it demanding. It’s more of a question.

Sansa blinks fast. The lock of hair is still in her eye. His other hand comes up swiftly and removes it, tucking it behind her ear, tracing her cheek.

Sansa breathes fast.  She remembers now this kind of proximity, the strange mixture of excitement and dread. There was once a time when it didn’t feel wrong. When they were just brother and sister. 

“What do you want from me, Jon?” she says, a knot forming in her throat. “I forgive you for whatever you’ve done wrong. I do. You’ve saved us all. Is that not enough?”  

He looks at her in the dark. His eyes stagger with weight.

_No._

_No, it’s not enough._

She doesn't know what to make of this communication. The line has not been severed. And she's terrified.

She pulls away, slips through his fingers and runs back inside the castle, a hasty “good night” on her lips.

She only slows down her step when she is certain he is not following.

The wind cries bitterly in Dragonstone, and she is far away from home.  


End file.
